


Ten Feet Off the Ground

by Leslie_Knope



Series: Gorgeous [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8516998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie_Knope/pseuds/Leslie_Knope
Summary: “Oh my god, you reek,” Laura says, waving her hand in front of her nose dramatically. “Get away from me. Right now. I never want to know what your desire smells like. Gross, gross, gross.”(Or: the one in which Derek and Stiles meet in a bar, and it's basically love at first sight.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> My heart goes out to everyone, today has been an awful day. I hope reading this can help you feel a little better for a few minutes. Writing this fic in the wee hours of the morning did a lot to help keep my anxiety at bay.
> 
> Title is from “Gorgeous” by X Ambassadors.

Derek steps over the threshold into the bar and immediately grimaces. “This is the tackiest thing I have ever seen in my goddamn life.”

At least, at the _very_ fucking least, he doesn’t have to yell in the crowded bar because he knows Laura can hear him. She grins and hooks her arm through his as she gestures to her “Bride-to-Be” sash.

“But I’m getting _maaaarrrried_ , so you have to put up with me.”

“I have no idea why I agreed to this,” he says, looking around with distaste. It’s a Western-themed bar, complete with a mechanical bull in the corner, and it’s horrendous, honestly.

“Because you’re my brother and you love me, and if I ask really nicely you’ll do anything for me.”

He sighs—because she’s right—and wraps his arms around her to scrape his scruffy chin over the top of her hair, a move he’s been doing to annoy her ever since he was tall enough to do so. Right on cue, she squeals and pushes him back, reaching up to fix her hair.

“But you’re the prettiest bachelorette at the bachelorette party, don’t you worry,” she says with a grin, patting his cheek, and he snarls at her.

The two of them manage to find a few of the other people who are here for Laura’s party and catch the bartender’s attention for drinks—Derek just gets cranberry and soda because he sees no point in paying for overpriced alcohol that won’t affect him anyway.

The mechanical bull has been in continuous use since they got there, but for some reason, the person clambering on now catches Derek’s attention. It’s a guy, tall and lean with messy brown hair and a pretty face. He’s wearing plaid, sure—like every other fucking person in this godforsaken bar—but at least there’s no cowboy hat or boots in sight. The bull starts moving, and the kid is laughing, being egged on by the cluster of people nearby who are probably his friends. It’s moving faster now, and holy shit, his hips are _really_ moving, going with the movement easily. Derek has never been more thankful in his life for his good vision because he can see very clearly how this guy’s shirt is riding up and revealing a very temping happy trail that leads into his skinny jeans. He’s waving his arms around for balance, and Derek can tell even from a distance that his hands are big. And the way those long legs are wrapped around that bull gives Derek a very vivid image of how they might look wrapped around something _else_. Namely, his own hips.

He actually makes it to the end of his “ride” without being bucked off, the first one Derek has seen to do so, and he watches with a shameful amount of longing as the kid stumbles off the mat, still laughing, and back into his group of friends.

“Oh my _god_ , you reek,” Laura says, waving her hand in front of her nose dramatically. “Get away from me. Right now. I never want to know what your _desire_ smells like. Gross, gross, gross.”

Derek glares at her but obediently steps aside a little bit.

“I don’t mind,” Erica sing-songs, sidling up to his side in Laura’s place, and Derek sighs.

“I don’t think Boyd would appreciate that very much.”

She snorts. “Oh, he doesn’t care. So who’s got your panties in a twist? That twink over there?”

“He’s not a _twink_ ,” he hisses.

“He’s a little twinky,” she counters, and he rolls his eyes. “He’s pretty hot. You should go talk to him.”

Derek grimaces. “I—what if he’s not into guys? You know I’m not good at that part.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “You are somewhat hopeless. Then let’s go over there together and see which one of us he stares at.”

He sighs but doesn’t resist as she grabs his hand and tugs him in the kid’s direction. As much as he’s ashamed to admit it, it’s a trick they’ve used before, and it usually works.

Erica weaves easily through the crowd and plants them right in front of the guy, who’s apart from his friends and clearly on his way to the bar. “Hi,” she says, her voice smooth and dark.

The guy blinks, his eyes wide, and jerks a little in place. “Uh, hello.”

His eyes dart between them for a couple seconds before settling on Derek, and he feels a somewhat embarrassing urge to puff up a little.

“This is my friend Derek,” Erica says, swinging their linked hands back and forth. He tries to stop her. “As you can see, he’s super-hot. And, _what a coincidence_ , he thinks you’re super-hot, too. I’m guessing you agree because you’re staring at him instead of me, even though I look great in this dress.”

“Oh my _god_ , Erica,” he hisses, barely resisting the urge to face palm. “You are the worst. Please leave.”

“You _do_ look, frankly, amazing in that dress,” the guy says, giving her a little bow, and she preens.

“Why, thank you.”

“So, uh,” the guy says, gesturing in a way that waves between them and ends with his hand going through his hair, “who exactly is the wingperson in this situation?”

“That’s me!” Erica chirps. “Am I doing a good job? I worked real hard at it, I had a strategy and everything.”

He laughs, his head thrown back in delight, and nods. “Fantastic.”

“Great,” she says, dropping Derek’s hand and clapping her own together. “Then my work here is done. Have fun, Der.”

Erica flounces away, and Derek stares after her with the usual mix of annoyance and gratitude. “I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly, scratching at his cheek. “Uh, for her.”

“So is that like a bit you two do or something?” the kid asks, grinning, and Derek sighs.

“No. She’s really just that bad, all the time.”

He’s chewing on the thin straw in his drink, and Derek’s torn between staring and just ripping it out of his hand for the sake of his own sanity. “So is it true?”

“Uh, which part?”

“The whole you-think-I’m-hot part,” he says, and Derek immediately flushes. “Oooh, okay, I’m gonna take that as a yes. Super adorable blush, by the way.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. The guy just laughs delightedly, though, and holds out his hand, as if they’re meeting some place more appropriate than a dreadful Western-themed bar.

“I’m Stiles, by the way.”

“Derek,” he says, taking Stiles’ hand—which is even bigger than at first glance—and squeezing carefully. Stiles doesn’t let go, though, and starts to walk backward, dragging Derek with him.

“C’mon, let’s dance.”

He winces. “I really don’t—”

Stiles drops his glass on a passing table and wraps his free arm around Derek’s waist as he pulls him flush with surprising strength. “You sure?”

“Um,” he says, wondering _where all the words went_. Seriously, there’s _nothing_ in his head, nothing at all except for the smell of Stiles’ cologne and how nicely broad his shoulders are and how perfect he feels nestled up against him like this. His eyes are a light brown, and Derek feels his gaze darting between them and the moles dotting his face.

“I can tell you’re a real man of words.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, wincing at the lame comeback even as he says it. Stiles just laughs, though, fondly, and his hips are moving easily, swaying a little to the beat of whatever horrendous EDM is playing, in strict contrast to the terrible theme of this bar.

Derek does a poor imitation of following along, and Stiles finally drops those big hands to his hips. “You gotta relax,” he whispers, dropping a light kiss in the hollow of his collarbone, and if possible, Derek stiffens even _more_.

Stiles laughs again and spins around in Derek’s arms, fitting his ass neatly into the cradle of his hips. Derek’s hands come down to his hips automatically, and he drags his nose up the curve of Stiles’ neck, barely suppressing a groan. His clean, fresh scent is practically heaven after the onslaught of unpleasant smells in the bar. Derek wants to drown in it.

Stiles whines a little bit, even though he probably wasn’t intending for anyone else to hear it, and presses himself back even more against Derek while he tilts his head. Derek takes the invitation and runs with it, pressing his mouth to Stiles’ neck in a long line of feather-light kisses. He adds a bit of tongue sometimes, uses his teeth a little, and he has to suppress a grin when Stiles shudders.

“You are ridiculous,” Stiles says softly, and Derek huffs.

“ _You_ are ridiculous,” he counters.

Stiles seemingly decides that they’re done with the dancing—Derek hasn’t decided yet whether that’s a good thing or not—and tugs him by the hand over to the side, where it’s a little bit quieter. Derek is expecting more of the same, but when he leans forward, Stiles stops him with a hand on his chest. “So are you a wolf?” he asks frankly, and Derek reels back.

“ _What_?”

“Werewolf,” he clarifies, making some kind of slashing motion with his free hand. “You know, claws, fangs, the whole _grr_ thing.”

His eyes are calm, his heartbeat completely steady, and Derek falters. “Uh—”

“You are!”

Derek’s jaw clenches, of its own accord. “Who the hell are you? If you’re a hunter…,” he says lowly, stepping a little closer, but Stiles doesn’t budge.

“Whoa, there, Cujo, no way,” Stiles says, bracing his hands on Derek’s chest. “My best friend got bit when we were 15, he’s an alpha now and I’ve been in his pack ever since.”

Derek pauses. That wasn’t a lie. “How old are you?” he asks suspiciously, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“24! I’m in grad school.”

“But you’re not…”

“Nah. I can do a little bit with mountain ash,” he says, shrugging. “But that’s really about it.”

“How the hell did you know?”

“Well, you seemed pretty into my neck, which, sure, while nice, isn’t _that_ nice,” he says, ticking items off on his fingers. Derek would beg to differ about the neck thing, though. “You sniffed me, more than is exactly normal. Then I tested it by saying something quietly, and you still heard me. And, just to seal the deal, you kinda have that shell-shocked look that all wolves get when they’re in crowded public places, like you’re bracing yourself against sensory overload.”

“Oh,” he says, blinking and feeling a little dumb. Yep, that was it in a nutshell, and he had no idea he was so obvious.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, wincing a little as he clearly picked up on Derek’s distress. “Is that—I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No, it’s fine. I was just…surprised, I guess. I’m used to keeping it secret, not people _guessing_ ,” he says, crooking an eyebrow, and Stiles smirks. “And what if I wasn’t? Just thought you were just some crazy person?”

“Then I would have pretended to be drunk,” he says promptly, and Derek can’t help it, he laughs.

“That happen to you often?”

“No, I can safely say that I’ve never actually guessed wrong.”

“Oh, yeah?” Derek asks, unexpected jealousy surging up from somewhere. “You meet a lot of wolves in bars?”

Stiles snorts and scratches at the back of his neck. “Uh, I guess you can say I’m one for one.”

Derek laughs and pulls Stiles closer with their still-linked hands. He has _no choice_ but to lean in and kiss him, he just can’t help it, and Stiles surges up against him, muffling a noise of surprise into his mouth. They’re right next to a wall, conveniently, and Derek lets Stiles press him up against it.

His mouth is soft and so fucking eager, slotting against Derek’s smoothly, and when Derek curves a hand around his jaw, Stiles opens up immediately and takes it deeper. They’re pressed together from shoulders to knees, and Derek can feel— _and_ smell—that Stiles is getting hard. He’s not far behind, especially when Stiles spreads a hand over his stomach and then clutches at his hip.

But even as much as Derek would like to think otherwise, there are limits to what they should do against a wall in a crowded bar. He eases his weight away from Stiles’ a bit and slows the kiss into something lazier, more exploratory.

Stiles pulls back with a whine and rests his nose against Derek’s cheek, just breathing for a moment. “My, uh, my apartment is actually just a couple blocks from here. Do you wanna come back with me?” he asks, and Derek tilts his head.

“For what?” he says, just to be a little shit.

“Light appetizers and sparkling conversation, probably,” Stiles says, not missing a beat. “Whaddya say?”

“Um,” Derek says, squeezing Stiles’ hand and pretending to think about it, “throw in breakfast, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“A tough negotiator,” he says, grinning. “I like it. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” he says, putting a hand on Stiles’ chest. “How much have you had to drink?” Stiles doesn’t smell too strongly of alcohol or seem drunk, but still. Better safe than sorry.

“Only one,” he says with a little smile.

“Okay,” he says, sliding his hand slowly off Stiles’ chest. “I should tell my sister I’m leaving.”

“Yeah, I need to find my friends, too. I’ll meet you by the door in a minute?”

Derek nods, and Stiles leans in to press a lightning-quick kiss against his lips before dashing off. He tries to school the ridiculous smile off his face while he makes a beeline toward Laura. She’s leaning against the bar, talking with one of her other friends, and he tugs at her elbow until she turns to face him. “I’m, uh, leaving,” he says, his eyes firmly on the floor, and she hoots.

“You go, little bro. Please have lots of wild, crazy sex in my honor.”

“Gross,” he says flatly, grimacing. “Please never say that again.”

“What’s his name?”

“Stiles. And he, uh, he knows,” he says quietly. “Grew up in a pack. He’s human, though.”

She looks surprised. “How—”

“He guessed.”

“Uh, okay.”

“I’m not asking for your permission here,” he says dryly, and she rolls her eyes.

“I know. Just be careful. You never—”

“I _know_. I think I can take care of myself.”

“Then just humor me. Where are you going?”

“His place.”

“Text me the address.”

“Laura,” he says with a groan, “come on.”

“I’m your alpha _and_ your big sister,” she says, poking him viciously in the shoulder. “Text. Me. His. Address.”

He sighs. “Fine.”

“Hey, you ready?” Stiles asks, popping up next to him, and Derek whisks him away by the hand toward the door before Laura can even _think_ about talking to him.

“Have fun!” she yells after them, and he winces. Stiles just laughs, though, and squeezes his hand.

“Congrats on the wedding!” Stiles calls back, and Laura gives him a thumbs up.

The burst of cold air outside the bar is incredibly refreshing, and when Stiles shivers, Derek wastes no time in wrapping an arm around him.

“You don’t even have long _sleeves_ on,” Stiles says, burrowing closer and tugging the sleeves of his flannel down from where he’d rolled them up. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“I run hot,” he says, and Stiles snorts.

“That one’s just too easy,” he says, sliding his hand into the back pocket of Derek’s jeans and squeezing.

Derek swallows. “Uh, so how far is your apartment?”

Stiles throws his head back and laughs. “Just another block. Do you think you can make it?”

“Maybe,” he says moodily, nipping at Stiles’ ear. “Can you?”

“Definitely not,” he says easily. “You’re lucky I’m not just humping you on the ground right now.”

Derek sighs and speeds up a little bit, tugging Stiles along. He stumbles after him with a breathless laugh and then jogs toward the building on the corner. Someone is coming out just as they’re going in, and Derek holds the door open. He follows Stiles up the stairs, staring at his ass in somewhat of a daze, and nearly runs into him when he stops on the third floor.

While Stiles digs through his pockets for his keys, Derek steps up behind him to press kisses against the back of his neck. He drops the keys twice before he manages to open the door, and Derek smiles against his skin.

“You fucker,” Stiles says fondly, tugging him inside. It’s a studio apartment, cozy and fairly neat, and Derek wastes no time in pushing him over to the big bed in the corner.

“So I don’t, uh, do this often, actually, and—” Stiles says, and Derek doesn’t think twice before kissing him to interrupt.

“Do what?” he murmurs against his lips

“Take random guys home from the bar.”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, me neither.”

“Wait, really?” he says, putting a couple extra inches of space in between them, and Derek raises an eyebrow.

“Why is that so surprising?”

“Because, uh,” he says, gesturing wildly, “you, you know, look like _that_.”

“So?”

Stiles shrugs and tugs him in closer again. “You’re right, good point.”

Stiles falls back on the bed, tugging Derek with him. He goes willingly and doesn’t resist the urge to drop his head again and kiss up Stiles’ neck. “Have you ever had sex with a werewolf before?”

Stiles looks surprised, and Derek winces immediately, wishing he could stuff those words right back into his mouth.

“Fuck, I—that was rude, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

Stiles laughs and tugs him closer. “It’s okay. And I haven’t, by the way. You’re the first.”

Derek kisses him, indulging and hating in equal measure the instinctive part of him that preens a little at that. “I’ve never had sex with anyone who knows what I am,” he admits.

“Wait, really?” Stiles asks, and Derek shakes his head. He hasn’t had sex with _that_ many people, honestly. He’s had a few relationships, a couple good and a couple terrible, but none long enough that he had to tell them the big family secret. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’re both newbies, then. I do know you guys don’t have knots, though,” he says, grinning, and Derek rolls his eyes. “I grilled Scott about it, _thoroughly_ , when we were teenagers.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says dryly, and Stiles laughs as he tugs Derek’s t-shirt up and off.

“Yeah, I’m not— _holy_ shit,” he says, tossing the shirt away. He flips them neatly and spreads his big hands over Derek’s torso. “Yeah, there is _no_ disappointment here, believe me. Like none at all.”

Derek rolls his eyes and sits up, intent on getting Stiles naked, but he’s thwarted by Stiles’ pained moan. “Oh my god, do that again,” he says, pawing at his stomach. “Your _abs_.”

Derek drops flat on his back and groans, exasperated. “I will do whatever you want if you just _take off your shirt_ ,” he says, stressing the words.

Stiles fumbles, trying to take both his shirts off at the same time. Derek resists the urge to help and just watches instead as he squirms in his lap. “Okay, okay,” he says finally, breathing hard from the effort. “Please sit up again.”

Derek does so with a sigh, distracted by all of Stiles’ mole-dotted skin that’s now on display. Stiles groans again and bites his lip. “Do you want me to just do push-ups or something?” he asks, gesturing toward the floor with a flat look, and Stiles’ eyes glaze over for a minute before he pushes them back down.

“Maybe another time,” he says, the words squashed against Derek’s mouth. “I have better ideas for right now.”

They make out for long minutes, just learning the curves of each other’s mouths and bodies as they roll around playfully in the sheets. Stiles ends up on top again, and Derek takes advantage of the opportunity to shove his hand down the back of his jeans and palm that ass. “So what happened to that sparkling conversation I was promised?” he asks, nibbling at Stiles’ lower lip.

“I’m sorry, is this not good enough for you?” Stiles says, mouthing his way down his chest. “Is this your way of telling me that you’re into dirty talk?”

Derek huffs a laugh. “No, I—” he starts, but Stiles cuts him off with a kiss on his lips before he can continue.

“Because I can do that, you know,” he says mildly, focusing his attentions on Derek’s neck. “I can tell you that you are literally the hottest person I have seen in my entire life. And that I spotted you the very second you walked in that bar. I literally thought I was dreaming when you walked over to me. _And_ , you little shit, it turns out that you’re _nice_. Like really nice. Which is just really fuckin’ unfair, man. How am I supposed to handle that?”

 _Jesus_. “How do you know I’m nice?” Derek asks, gasping the words out and tilting his head as Stiles tries in vain to give him a hickey. He was expecting the physical stuff, sure, but—nice? People don’t usually call Derek _nice_.

“Because you have kind eyes,” Stiles says, tracing Derek’s eyebrows with one hand while the other intertwines their fingers. “And you went to your sister’s bachelorette party, even though you were miserable. And you made sure I wasn’t drunk. And I get a good vibe from you. I have a very fine-tuned _vibe_ -dar, I’ll have you know. I’m very picky.”

Stiles just looks at him then, his eyes serious, and Derek swallows against the surge of affection bubbling up in his chest. He doesn’t have any good words with which to respond to that, so he surges up instead and curves one hand around the back of Stiles’ head as he kisses him, deep and slow.

Things take a quieter, more serious turn after that, and Derek watches in fascination as Stiles takes care of their pants and peels down their underwear. Stiles just stares at his dick for a little while, lightly tracing the vein and laughing a little when it jumps in his grip. His big hand feels so good, even dry, and Derek’s dripping a lot more pre-come than normal. “Fuck, your eyes are pretty,” Stiles says.

Derek thinks it’s just a normal compliment at first, until he realizes that his eyes are definitely glowing. He screws them shut and grimaces. “Shit, sorry.”

“Hey, hey,” he says softly, leaning down to kiss him. “It’s fine. Do whatever you want, it doesn’t bother me.”

That wasn’t a lie, so Derek gingerly opens his eyes again and lets his gaze skate lazily down Stiles’ form. He looks so good on top of him, and he gasps so sweetly when Derek thumbs at the head of his dick.

“Hang on,” Stiles says, bracing one hand on Derek’s chest for leverage while he reaches over to his bedside table. He comes back with a slick hand, and Derek can’t bite back the groan when he wraps it around him. God, that’s so much better, and this is probably going to be embarrassingly fast.

“Hang on,” he mutters, taking some of the lube from Stiles and focusing on Stiles’ cock in a vain attempt to stave off his own orgasm. It doesn’t work, exactly, and Stiles’ bitten-off moans and whimpers just send him up higher. Stiles comes first, though, spilling over Derek’s hand with a low whine. His hand stills as he heaves deep breaths, so Derek flips them over with a grunt, kneeling over Stiles and stripping his own cock until he shudders, groaning, and comes all over Stiles’ stomach. He catches his own weight on his elbows just in time as he collapses, and he controls his fall enough so that only part of his weight lands on Stiles.

“Holy shit,” Stiles gasps, and Derek grunts in agreement, pressing a kiss to the left of Stiles’ nipple, right over his heart. He finds enough energy and muscle control to reach for Stiles’ undershirt, which is hanging off a bedpost, and wipes them both off perfunctorily. Stiles murmurs a thanks and burrows closer, his eyes closed as he cards a hand through Derek’s hair.

* * *

Derek wakes up slowly, pleasantly weighed down by Stiles half-sprawled across his chest. They’re still tangled together, which is surprising—he usually moves away from his bed partners, few and far between that they are, during the night.

The light coming through the curtains is gray, and he curses his internal body clock…he’ll definitely have to take a nap later. Stiles looks like a heavy sleeper, so Derek gently disentangles himself and finds his boxer briefs, then pads softly over to the other side of the apartment. The kitchen is well-stocked, thank goodness, and after a little rummaging, Derek starts whipping up some pancake batter.

The eggs are scrambled, the coffee is done, and the pancakes are just finishing by the time Stiles rolls over in bed with a low groan. Derek smiles down at the pan as he tracks Stiles’ progress into the bathroom and then over to the kitchen.

“I thought I was supposed to be providing the breakfast,” he says, pressing a kiss to the middle of Derek’s tattoo. “Wasn’t that our deal?”

Derek shrugs and slides the last of the pancakes onto the plate, then flips off the burner and turns to face Stiles. “I was feeling generous.”

Stiles murmurs in response and steps up close. “Now _I’m_ feeling generous,” he says with a slow smile. He strokes a hand down Derek’s torso, painstakingly slow and feather-light, from the dip between his collarbones to the skin right above the waistband of his boxer-briefs. Derek is mostly hard by the time he gets there, and Stiles grins as he sinks to his knees.

“The pancakes will get cold,” Derek says dumbly, but Stiles’ grin just gets wider.

“No they won’t.”

Derek doesn’t even get to _comprehend_ the implications of that before Stiles tugs down his underwear and sucks the head of his dick into his mouth. He doesn’t ease into it, either, and Derek curses, scrabbling for a grip on the counter behind him before his knees give out. Stiles is sloppy and eager and really, really fucking good at this.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Stiles,” he hisses, sliding his hand gently into Stiles’ hair just so that he can touch him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, god, you’re so—”

Stiles just groans around his dick, and Derek shudders from the vibrations. He pulls off to take a deep breath and dips down to mouth at Derek’s balls while his hand works furiously on Derek’s spit-slick cock. Derek’s orgasm is screaming up on him already, and while he really wants to slow Stiles down and drag this out, he just can’t make himself do it. Maybe next time, he says, just to make himself feel better.

Stiles keeps making these _noises_ , as if this is doing as much for him as it is for Derek, and Derek can’t stand it anymore. “I…I can’t, I’m gonna—”

Stiles sits back with a wet pop and grins up at Derek as he jacks him off. His eyes are wide and bright, and that’s what sends Derek over the edge, bending over at the waist as he comes with a surely-unattractive grunt, dripping over Stiles’ hand and his own torso. Derek winces when a few stray drops land on Stiles’ face, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says with a harsh exhale, scrambling to his feet and crashing their mouths together. The kiss tastes slightly stale, like morning breath and come, but Derek pushes into it anyway, sliding his tongue into Stiles’ mouth and making him moan.

“Fuck,” Stiles mumbles, shoving down his own boxers so that his dick slaps against the hard plane of Derek’s torso. He brings his hand down but Derek bats it away in favor of his own, stroking quickly, and it’s probably less than a minute before Stiles is shaking in his grip and spilling over Derek’s hip.

“Oh, god,” he says, clutching at Derek’s shoulders. “Ohhhhh, god. I don’t think my legs work anymore.”

“I got you,” Derek murmurs, wrapping both arms around his waist. It’s quiet for a couple minutes between them, with Stiles bracing his forehead against Derek’s neck and huffing warm breaths over his skin. “What was that for?”

“You were just _there_ , standing in my kitchen,” Stiles says, grinning as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What was I supposed to do?”

“I’m think I’m gonna stand in your kitchen a lot more often,” he decides, and Stiles laughs.

“Good. And you made breakfast,” he says, gesturing to the table. “Can’t let that go unrewarded.”

Stiles reaches into a nearby drawer for a kitchen towel and leans over to run it under the tap. He wipes them off carefully, doing an admirable job considering that Derek stops to kiss him every four seconds. Derek tugs their underwear back up and gives Stiles a quick swat on the ass when he twists to toss the kitchen towel in the direction of the closet.

He turns back with a grin and grabs the plates, kissing Derek’s shoulder as he serves up the food. Derek pours the coffee, watching intently to commit Stiles’ order to memory: one sugar cube and a splash of half-and-half. Stiles gets the condiments from the fridge while Derek pulls open drawers in search of silverware.

There’s no table but there are two stools at the breakfast bar, which Stiles gestures at gallantly. “The pancakes are delicious,” he says, mumbling around a mouthful. “And they _aren’t_ cold, you’re very welcome.”

Derek sighs and rolls his eyes, but he leans over for a sticky, maple-syrupy kiss anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm on the Tumbles.](leslieknopeismyshiningstar.tumblr.com/)


End file.
